by Allen Eskens
“We’ll take care of her. Remember, don’t grin when they take the mug shot. Try to look calm, but not thug calm. Think of Emma. We’ll get you through this. Think of that. You want to look confident that your innocence will prevail. That’s the picture you want.”
Ben smiled at Boady. “I’ll do the best I can.”
“A friend of mine works for the Associated Press. He’ll tip me off on when the County Attorney’s press conference will be. I’ll be there. I’ll try and get in a few shots on your behalf.”
A second deputy with thick arms and no smile came through a door and approached Ben. “Are you Benjamin Lee Pruitt?” the man asked.
“I am,” Ben said.
“I have a warrant for your arrest on the charge of murder. Please place your hands behind your back.” Ben did as he was commanded. The deputy ratcheted a cuff around one wrist, then the other. The deputy pat-searched Ben for weapons. He and Boady both knew the drill and came prepared. Ben had nothing in his pockets except his driver’s license and $200.00 in cash.
The three deputies led Ben through the door toward the intake room where the next step of his incarceration would take place. He would be strip-searched and given an orange jumpsuit to wear. Orange socks and plastic orange sandals, too. He would be photographed and fingerprinted and locked in a cell.
Ben did not look back as they led him away.
Chapter 32
Also bright and early Monday morning, about the time that deputies were fitting Ben Pruitt with a pair of handcuffs, a mail courier dropped off a couple packages for Max and Niki. The first was the computer forensics for the laptops and cell phones belonging to both Ben and Jennavieve Pruitt. In the second package Max found twenty-eight CD-ROMs from the Illinois Department of Transportation—the tollbooth surveillance footage. Max held both packages out to Niki. “Which one do you want?”
“Tough choice. One will bore me to tears reading computer files and web histories, the other I’ll be watching cars crawl through tollbooths until I’ll want to put a bullet in my brain. Which do you want?”
“I’ll flip you for it.” Max reached into his pocket and pulled out a nickel. He tossed it into the air and slapped it to his wrist. “If it’s heads, you do the tollbooth CDs, and if it’s tails you do the computer forensic file.”
Niki nodded and Max lifted his hand to reveal Monticello. Tails. He handed Niki the pack of computer records.
“Excellent,” Niki said. “I’ve been fighting a bout of insomnia lately anyway.”
“Who said homicide investigations aren’t exciting?” Max said, dropping his packet on the desk. “I have a little errand to take care of. I’ll be back in a few.”
Niki looked at him, probably trying to figure out what he was up to. Max turned and walked away before she could read anything more from his face.
Max had never looked at his wife’s investigation file, yet he knew most of the case. Louis Parnell had a reputation for not being able to keep secrets, so Max would take Parnell out for a beer every now and again to get updates.
Jenni Rupert had been walking in a parking garage in the middle of a Tuesday afternoon. It was the ramp where she normally parked her car, a ramp used primarily by Hennepin County Medical Center, where Jenni worked as a social worker. There were no cameras in the ramp, at least back then. No one heard anything. No one saw anything.
Her body was found on the third level, the bones in her neck disjoined by a car tire. The casing from a headlight found near her body had Jenni’s blood on it, along with a serial number that told them it was a 2008 Toyota Corolla. The hit had been hard enough that yellow paint had transferred onto Jenni’s clothing. They knew the make and color of the car that killed her, but despite the nationwide search for a yellow Corolla with front-end damage, the car had never been found.
After a while, Max stopped talking to Parnell. He couldn’t stand to hear that nothing new had come up. And when Louis Parnell retired, Max tucked his hopes away. He wasn’t allowed to touch the file, and Parnell’s replacement didn’t have Jenni’s case on his list. The powers that be had decided that the time had come for Jenni Rupert’s file to be tucked away in the archive room.
When Max stopped walking, he looked up to find himself at the door to the archive room.
He glanced down the hall in both directions before entering. Even though he often found the need to visit the archive room as part of an investigation, this time he felt like a thief. He walked in and nodded to a man with gray hair and a thick mustache, who Max knew as Felix.
“Morning, Detective.”
“Morning, Felix. I need to see a cold file.”
“Sure thing. You got a number?”
Max read off the ICR number for his wife’s file. He’d memorized it back when Parnell had the case.
Felix came out with the file in a red rope folder about three inches thick, thicker than he’d expected.
“You going to read it here?”
“No. I’ll be taking it with me.” Max smiled as he talked. He looked at Felix’s eyes, searching for any recognition. He waited for Felix to stop him from taking a file that he was forbidden to have.
Felix said nothing.
Max signed for the file. Then he tucked it under his arm and said good-bye to Felix.
Chapter 33
Boady drove home from the jail using back streets that would take him past parks and cemeteries and tree-lined boulevards. He rolled his window down and breathed in the scent of recently mowed lawns and oak leaves. The smell cooled the blood that pulsed in his temples. Emma would be awake by now, rising from a bed that would be hers until her father returned. That might happen in a matter of hours, or it could be months—or, if Boady didn’t have it in his bones to be the lawyer he used to be, it could be never. Boady fought to keep that thought at bay.
He stopped off at a grocery store along the way to buy food and supplies for Emma. He and Diana had never had children. It was just one of those things. Now Boady walked through the store, looking at items on the shelf and wondering what, if any of it, a ten-year-old girl might want. He spent more time in the cereal aisle than ever before, trying to remember the cereals he coveted as a child, cereals that were too expensive to make it into his mother’s cupboard. He bought sweet-scented shampoo and juice boxes and prepacked meals that came in brightly colored boxes. In truth, he had no idea what he was doing.
He pulled into his driveway, parked close to his kitchen door, and grabbed a handful of grocery bags to take inside. When he went outside for his second load of groceries, he saw a man walking up his drive. He’d never seen the man before, tall, handsome, with a jersey-beauhunk slickness about him.
“Are you Boady Sanden?” the man asked.
“I am.”
“I understand you represent Ben Pruitt.”
Boady turned to better face the man.
“What can I do for you?” Boady asked.
“I need to speak to Ben Pruitt’s attorney. It’s important. It’s about Emma.”
“I’m Ben Pruitt’s attorney.”
The man reached into his jacket and pulled out a manila envelope. “Read this,” he said. “It’ll explain everything.”
Boady opened the envelope and pulled out a stack of papers—two sets of legal documents stapled at the corners.
“You’ve been served,” the man said.
Boady looked at the papers, at the man, and back at the papers. The first document was an injunctive order. At first, Boady didn’t understand what he was reading. But as he read further, he understood.
As executor of Jennavieve’s estate, her sister, Anna, had been granted an injunction, freezing all of Ben Pruitt’s bank accounts. The injunction relied upon the slayer statute, a law that prevents one spouse from benefitting financially if they murder the other.
Anna had convinced a judge that Ben would be depleting the estate if he were allowed to use joint assets to pay for his defense. The order referenced a prenuptial agreement. Ben Pruitt wo
uld have no claim to any asset paid for out of Jennavieve’s trust money. The judge ordered that all of their joint accounts be frozen.
When Boady looked up, he saw a well-dressed woman standing on the sidewalk at the end of his driveway. Anna Adler-King wore a suit the color of platinum, a jacket and pants cut from some soft, shiny material that rippled as she walked—an outfit that straddled a line between office-power and evening-chic. She had long, dark hair that she wore up off of her neck, and her makeup gave her face crisp lines.
“We have reason to believe that Emma Pruitt is now living here with you,” the man said. “If you could go get her . . .”
“Excuse me?” Boady said.
“Read the second order,” the man said. “It’s all there.”
Boady pulled out the second set of stapled papers. As he read, his mouth went dry. Anna Adler-King had gotten custody of Emma Pruitt, pending the outcome of Ben’s trial. Something primal and raw began to crystallize along the strands of Boady’s DNA as he read the custody document.
He heard the click of high heels on the concrete of his driveway. He glanced up to see Anna Adler-King making her way up to where he and the process server stood. Boady went back to reading. He looked for a date of filing. That morning. He checked the other document as well. Same thing.
“How did you know about the indictment?” Boady asked. He failed at his attempt to conceal his rage.
“Is Emma here?” Anna asked.
“Who’s asking?” Boady already knew, but he wanted to be certain before he took his next step.
“I’m her aunt, Anna. We’ve met before. Don’t you remember?”
Boady did remember. He’d seen her at Emma’s baptism and at a couple of her birthday parties, early on.
“The grand jury was a secret hearing. The indictment is still under seal. How did you get these orders?”
Anna’s reply was calm and well-rehearsed. “The indictment was unsealed when Ben turned himself in this morning.”
“That was barely over an hour ago. You drafted both of these and got before a judge in an hour?”
“I have very good attorneys, Mr. Sanden. It’s obvious that Ben killed my sister. They merely planned ahead. And when the indictment came down, Judge Hildebrandt—he’s an old friend of the family—just happened to have an open slot on his calendar this morning. Now I’d like to see Emma.”
The Adler name opened doors that would remain shut for most people. They likely had “friends” inside the County Attorney’s Office, people who might let it slip that a grand jury focusing on Ben Pruitt had been convened. They held fundraisers for judges who wouldn’t bend the law for a donor, but might hold a fast hearing for one.
Boady folded the papers into thirds and slid it into his back pocket. He was no longer angry. This was the game. They’d come out with their first-string offense, and now he needed to hit back.
“You’ll need to get off of my property now.”
“Excuse me?” Anna’s tone rose like a cartoon sound effect.
“You heard me. Get off of my property.”
“We’re not leaving here without Emma,” the man said. “I know she’s here. I’ve been watching—”
For a man in his fifties, Boady Sanden was fit. He’d grown up working construction to help support his widowed mother. But more than that, Boady knew the law. He had legal custody of Emma. The custody order he had in his back pocket carried no more weight than the paper on which it was written.
Boady stepped into the face of the process server, a man in his mid-thirties, a big chest but small hands, the kind of hands that hoisted dumbbells as a means of compensating for other deficiencies. “You have exactly five seconds to get off my property.”
The man squared up to Boady. “We’re not leaving without—”
“One!”
The man looked at Anna then back at Boady. “You don’t—”
“Two!” Boady kept his face expressionless but punched the numbers at an even pace.
“We have a court—”
“Three!” Boady knotted his fists. He had big hands that looked like hammers when they were all rolled up. He was going to take a beating if he got to five. He had little doubt about that. But this was his property. Emma was his charge. Those were things worth taking a beating for.
“Anna?” The man glanced over Boady’s shoulder to where his boss stood.
“Four!”
“Come on, Roger,” Anna said. “We can take care of this in court.”
Anna Adler-King walked away from Boady and Roger without looking at either man. Roger paused for a second then followed her down the driveway.
Boady didn’t move until they drove away. When he turned, he saw Diana standing in the doorway, her face creased with worry.
Chapter 34
That night, before driving home, Max stopped by the crime lab to talk to Bug Thomas, who told Max that he hadn’t found anything more on the key. Other than residue of rubbing alcohol, evidence that the key and tag had been carefully cleaned before being placed into the envelope. The envelope had been sealed with water, not saliva, so no DNA.
At home, Max opened his briefcase, which held his wife’s file, the key, the letter, and a stack of CDs from the Illinois tollbooths. He put the first CD into his laptop and waited for the self-executing file to open. As he waited, he looked at the key and tag, examining them for the hundredth time, hoping that something might jump out at him. Nothing did.
When the surveillance footage cued up, he started watching cars shuffle through the first of seven gates of Toll Plaza Nineteen, just outside of Chicago. The thought of all the footage he would need to watch already made his eyelids heavy.
Max settled in. Car after car went by, and when the occasional red sedan pulled up, Max would study it. Was there only the single driver? Yes? A man? Yes? If the car matched those criteria, Max would enlarge the screen to better see the driver and write down the license plate number. After half an hour, he’d only written down one plate number, and he was fairly certain it wasn’t Ben Pruitt in the driver’s seat.
This would be his homework every night until he burned through all twenty-eight discs or until he spotted Ben Pruitt and the red sedan.
He held the key and tag in his hand as he watched the surveillance footage. There is a storage unit within five minutes of my home, he told himself. Was it possible that his key might fit door number 49 there? Extraordinarily unlikely. But it might. The odds were no greater or lesser that the key would fit that unit as any other in the state. Only five minutes away. He could make a quick trip there, just to satisfy his curiosity.
Max blinked and looked back at the screen. He’d been staring at cars filing through the gate, but he hadn’t been looking. He stopped the footage and rolled it back to the last point he remembered paying attention. He gave his cheeks a light slap and started watching again.
They weren’t paying him for this. He’d put in his eight-hour day. The bags under his eyes squeezed and pulled, begging him to get some sleep. But he knew that sleep would not come. Not unless he did something to ease his mind. One small token. A first step in an investigation he’d been wanting to do for four years.
He shut his computer down and put the key in his pocket. He would drive to the nearest storage facility and try the key there. If it didn’t fit, he would come back home and hope to get some sleep. He could do at least one location every night, maybe a handful if they were clumped together. He knew this might be a wild goose chase, but if nothing else, it might clear his conscience enough each night to let him sleep.
Chapter 35
The twenty-four hours between Ben’s surrender and the first court appearance moved with the speed of a crashing bicycle, a mere flash in real time, but each individual second seemed to linger forever. Boady went to the jail an hour before the bail hearing, his head full of bullet points that needed to be checked off.
Ben entered the visitor’s room wearing orange scrubs, a half a smile, and hair that l
ooked weed-whipped.
“How you holding up?” Boady asked.
“It sucks. I need a shower in the worst way. And the noise—my God. People have to yell for no damn reason. But it wasn’t quite as bad as I was expecting.”
“Did you see the news conference?”
“Yeah.” Ben smiled. “You still got it, Boady.”
Boady smiled back.
The press conference had begun with Daniel Maddox, the Hennepin County Attorney, proudly announcing the arrest of prominent criminal-attorney Ben Pruitt for the murder of his wife, Jennavieve Pruitt. After an initial statement, he’d opened the floor for questions. One reporter asked if Ben Pruitt would be representing himself, as he was a criminal-defense attorney of some renown, or if he would have his own attorney. Maddox answered that he’d been told that Pruitt had an attorney but didn’t know the attorney’s name.
“I’m his attorney and my name is Boady Sanden!” Boady hollered. The reporters turned to Boady, who had taken a position off to the side in the back of the room. Boady kept his eyes on Maddox.
“If you don’t mind, Mr. Sanden, I’d like to finish the press conference,” Maddox said, trying to get things back on track.
“Professor Sanden, if you don’t mind,” Boady said. He figured that at least some of the reporters would research his name and discover that he ran the law school’s Innocence Project, an office that focused on finding those who had been wrongfully convicted and bringing their cases out of the shadows. It was the perfect background for this case—a champion of the wrongfully convicted coming out of retirement to prevent an injustice—and he hoped to tie the word innocence to Ben Pruitt as often as possible. “You go right ahead, Mr. Maddox. I didn’t come here to interfere. Just wanted to keep the record straight is all.”
Boady had a slight southern accent that he could unpack whenever it suited his purpose, a hint of country charm left over from his days growing up in Missouri. He nodded back to Maddox, who continued with his press conference. But Boady knew that when Maddox finished, the reporters would be looking to him for a quote, a snippet they could give the viewers, to suggest balance in their reporting.
